


The Private Diary of Mr. John Tobias Williams, Esq.

by Owl_songs



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Diary/Journal, Gen, Origin Story, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_songs/pseuds/Owl_songs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the help of his young niece, a lonesome Victorian folklorist encounters and befriends a very young Goblin King.  For his research, the folklorist probes him for the story of his origins.  But some questions are best left unanswered, and, as our folklorist will discover, unasked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Private Diary of Mr. John Tobias Williams, Esq.

  
The Private Diary of Mr. John Tobias Williams, Esq.

I. PREFACE.

The present volume presents Mr. Williams' personal account of a curious incident of 1886, now for the first time published from the original manuscripts. Concerning Mr. Williams' life pursuit of the study of fairy-folk in addition to sundry observations of his brother's family whilst he stayed with them in their country residence in H—, the contents of his private diary were discovered by accident only a few years ago. In private, Mr. Williams expresses views rather different from those appearing in his research journals and published scholarly works, making his private diary of particular interest to those still laboring in active pursuit of the study of British and Celtic folk-lore.

The publication of this diary will perhaps tend towards unveiling the reason behind his sudden removal from that field of inquiry, far beyond any theories that have yet been printed or espoused by his associates. We have, of course, Mr. Williams' own account of the matter in his final collection of essays, _Above the Wind and Behind the Sky: The Lore of the British Isles_ , as well as reports from his contemporaries, many of whom he regarded as his rivals during his lifetime. But these accounts may be criticized as incomplete in light of these newly uncovered documents, the veracity of which the reader must determine alone.

M. C. E.

 

 

42 Elstree Place,  
27 June, 1925.

II. MR. WILLIAMS' DIARY.

November 8, 10:45 p.m.

A peculiar thing transpired today. My niece came to me in my study with questions about my work. This was most unusual; usually she shows only the utmost disdain for my scientific approach to documenting and investigating the habits of the fair folk. After much cajoling and liberal application of her favorite Turkish Delight, she confided in me: today she had met one of them! The following is an account of their exchange, as described to me by my niece.

She had been playing at the bottom of the garden near the old thorn tree, as she is wont to do in the afternoon, when she noticed a pair of eyes watching her through the hedgerow. At first, she believed it merely to be some kind of animal & tried to coax it out by tempting it with bits of meat pasty nicked from the kitchen. But as she spoke, she says, she began to observe a certain intelligence in the way the eyes tracked her movements and seemed to respond to her words.

At length, she gave up tempting the owner of eyes as she would an animal and began to address him directly, making, she tells me, some choice comments about the character of those who lurk underneath hedges watching little girls. This did the trick, and a young gentleman emerged from the shadows, introducing himself as the Goblin King.

They spoke for a short time, exchanging pleasantries at the child's insistence, rather to the gentleman's amusement, which she solemnly informs me he utterly failed to conceal appropriately. He told her quite candidly who he was, supplying all manner of titles that she could not recall when prompted, but assuring her that he was indeed one of the fair folk.

I have asked the child to seek him out again tomorrow with a number of questions. I will take certain apotropaic measures to ensure her safety, of course—it would not do for him to whisk her away when she has become so invaluable to my research! It is well that she is so fond of her green coat, as I doubt I can offer her better protection.

Breakfast half past nine. Dinner of pheasant and sweet potatoes; tea at six. Supper of soup, fish, and bread.

 

November 9, 3:10 a.m.

I find myself a restless sleeper in anticipation of tomorrow. My mind wanders, and I cannot think but to try and guess at whom the fairy-gentleman may be, and what new knowledge he may bring.

From the description given me by my niece, I think I may comfortably conclude that he is not one of the lesser breeds, such as might have been forced into hiding by invading forces. He is certainly not a Pygmy, towering over her as she describes. Neither can he be a mere memory or vestige of an ancient religion, as Mr. Clodd and his compatriots would contend. As for Mr. Hartland, I will relish proving his ludicrous "theory of the dead" false!

The child said he took her hand at their introduction; therefore he is corporeal. Tall, ethereally beautiful, undiminished—can this be? What manner of creature can he be, with such an outward appearance of inhuman perfection that a child describing him blushes and speaks reverentially? No fallen angel, surely, could tempt her child's heart—perhaps he is some elemental being, a sylph of the air? He is gentry, that much is certain, as he fancies himself a king.

Beyond those paltry hypotheses, I cannot determine his type, or his origin, simply from the exchange recounted to me by my niece. I can only hope she sees him again tomorrow and somehow convinces him to divulge the relevant information.

Where can he come from? What can he seek?

I am resolved to write to the Folklore Society tomorrow. Their assistance, however grudgingly I ask it, would ease my mind in the days to come.

Midnight snack of shepherd's pie.

 

November 9, 11:52 p.m.

Arose half past eight, breakfast half past nine. The child has gone out in the hopes of meeting him again. She has not seen him since the first encounter. I took the precaution of tucking a bit of cold iron into her inside jacket pocket before she left. I think that is what kept him away.

Posted letter to the Society at noon, along with several others to some the more notable folklorists amongst my former acquaintance. Paid overnight arrival postage. I am convinced the expense is warranted in light of the situation, although my unenlightened sister-in-law complains. She is utterly without cause—it is not _her_ money. Perhaps she fears my influence on her husband, though as he and I have lived together our entire adult lives and are completely different people with few common interests, if any, I remain firm in my conviction that such influence between us is impossible. He is so very _dull_ ; and I am sure he thinks the same of me.

In any event, I anticipate a swift response from the Society; such immediate access to one of the fair folk is unprecedented. They must appreciate the enormity of this rare opportunity, whatever our past differences.

Dinner of mutton, potato, biscuit, cheese, and port. Tea taken in the library at six, as I cannot be spared from my books at this essential stage. Supper same as dinner.

 

November 11, 10:37 p.m.

Have received no response from either the Folklore Society or the various folklorists to whom I have written about how to proceed in observing the fairy-gentleman in the garden. I will proceed on my own. They will be so envious of my results!

Nothing since last entry, yet I am eager and hopeful that another encounter is imminent. The child implied that he promised to "play with her" again soon; she does not seem overly concerned that he has not reappeared as of yet.

Skipped dinner. Tea in the library again. Sister-in-law harangued unpleasantly until I came to supper, which was uninspired: consommé, chicken fricassee with rice, pickles. Went to bed hungry.

 

November 12, 11:18 p.m.

At last, success! The child has seen him again. She asked some of the questions I put to her, forgot the rest. I had packed her some bread, as it is well documented by a number of the most prominent scholars of folklore that fairies and related creatures abhor the evidence of man's dominion over nature. The plan backfired: instead of using it to ward him off, she shared the bread with him. Oblivious to my chagrin as young children often are, she took particular care to tell me how much he enjoyed it, and requested that I include some butter or preserves next time.

She informs me she spent most of the afternoon listening to the fairy's tales about his kingdom. It is apparently a gigantic maze, inhabited by all manner of foul creatures. Particularly prominent amongst his subjects are the goblins. It is for this reason that he calls himself the Goblin King, and _not_ because he is himself a goblin. There was evidently some confusion on this point, as the child made sure to explain this distinction to me several times, at length.

Despite this serendipitous proliferation of data, however, the location of his kingdom remains obscure. The child cannot seem to articulate it, for although she says that it is underground, in keeping with that marvelous tradition of fairy kingdoms hidden beneath hills, she also insists that there is day and night and a reigning sun, just as there is here aboveground. The Goblin Kingdom has close neighbors who threaten its borders, yet desert that is no part of the kingdom surrounds it, parched land stretching as far as the eye can see and likely further. To travel within the kingdom requires that first one must become hopelessly lost, lest one's destination and point of departure be reversed, such that no progress is ever made. It is endless yet finite, static yet perpetually changing—I am sure this is nonsense, or else some paradox created with clever glamours.

She remembered to ask after his relations. I was curious as to whether he would claim connection with some of the more famed of his kind. Not without reason, it seems, for he claims to be closely related to Auberon. When asked whether she thought he was telling the truth, the child looked skeptical; she knows her Bard well enough to be familiar both with Auberon and the fair folk's propensity for egregious falsehoods. Despite this, however, she seems to take much of what he tells her for the absolute truth. It is galling, but I must rely on the judgment of a seven-year-old girl in this matter, as I very much doubt that my presence would facilitate his conversation.

While compelling, none of this speaks to the question of his origin, nor what he seeks to gain by tarrying here.

Have still not received response to inquiries. Frustrated.

Mutton again.

 

November 13, 10:30 p.m.

The child has finally discovered the reason he lingers: he has injured himself! Sheepish but forced into confession, he admitted that he had been teaching himself to fly but hadn't quite managed landing yet. He has trapped himself mid-transformation—the injured limb is still a wing, whilst the rest of him is human-shaped. Fascinating!

I am curious as to how the child neglected to notice such an obvious injury as the flawed partial transformation of the body. In responding to this question, she shrugged, claiming it is because she did not assume that he _should_ look like a human—if his hair were feathered, or his eyes strange, or any aspect of him different from human men, why should that not be his natural state, given his inhumanity? She says he concealed the injury from her initially, creating a glamour that kept her eyes from seeking out that side of his body. Can it really be so simple a thing, to trick the eye in that way?

As for the wing, she tells me that he said that he had not wished for her to see it out of sheer vanity. At this point in her story, she laughed and asked whether that was not the silliest thing I had ever heard, and whether all men were as concerned about their appearances. She cannot imagine anything more impressive than turning into a bird at will. The child believes he is some kind of raptor; she is awed to speak of it even now that several hours have lapsed.

His efforts in befriending her finally make sense. In exchange for his tales, he asked her various small favors, such as helping him locate certain wild berries and herbaceous weeds in the garden, presumably to help expedite his healing. She thinks it is all a game and happily assisted.

At his request, she stole a number of items from the house. She is not so good at sneaking as she thinks; she was caught by her stepmother almost at once and promptly punished for the theft. The child is prohibited from playing out of doors for the next week.

Roast beef and potatoes for dinner. Tea at five in the study. Wild duck with spinach for supper.

 

November 14, 11:15 p.m.

After much convincing, the child has agreed to let me watch as she converses with him, in exchange for my speaking to her stepmother, who has agreed that assisting me in my fieldwork is punishment enough. Miffed at my sister-in-law, but satisfied in that my research may continue. I hid in the hedge with notes and pencil several hours in advance; also remembered to turn my coat inside out. It was good that I did so, as he appeared out of nowhere, springing from between the roots of the thorn tree with no warning whatsoever. He nearly caught me. Must endeavor to be more careful in the future.

He is much as she described him to me: tall, slender, fair, and unbelievably handsome. He is dressed informally yet splendidly in somewhat antiquated style, with leather breeches, buff waistcoat, frothy shirt with lace cuffs, and emerald tailcoat. Gloves, yet no cravat. I felt altogether shabby in my old overcoat and woolen jumper.

What follows is a summary of their conversation; the rest is recorded in my field notes, to be translated from my shorthand at a later date.

Today the child wanted to hear more about the maze that forms his kingdom, which I considered a turn of luck—until he decided that rather than telling her outright of how his kingdom came to be, he would giver her three stories of its creation and let her choose her favorite.

Version the first: He created the Labyrinth as a way of keeping others out. He would not say what others, nor why he wanted to keep them away. The child shared my frustration. It was a rather unsatisfactory tale.

Version the second: The Labyrinth was there when he came, and had been there for millennia. He was but one king in a long succession of rulers. The kingship was both punishment and reward, although for what, he would not say.

Version the third: The Labyrinth was there when he came, having sprung into existence in anticipation of the King. He is the only King the Labyrinth has ever had, governing by way of his mastery of wild magic.

She liked the game, but suspected that no single version of the tale was entirely true or false. I concur. But neither her pleading nor my wishing would convince him to divulge the truth of the matter, as he maintained that it would be good for her to learn not to mistake all that she is told for the truth, and that it is time she learned to distinguish truth from falsehood. Clever, but no good for my research.

Their voices lowered at times such that I could not hear their words. I will ask the child to speak up in the future. Eavesdropping is of no use if one cannot hear what is being said.

Cold cut sandwich for dinner, eaten while crouched behind the hedge. Most undignified, but absolutely necessary. Tea at six, supper of pastry baked haddock, cabbage, carrots.

 

November 15, 10:50 p.m.

Observed them again. As per my request, she spoke up, but was so obvious about it—over-enunciating and such—that I feared I would be discovered. Fortunately, the child is not entirely without guile. With a little convincing and a clever tale about her stepmother's fondness for boxing her ears, she was able to soothe his suspicions. It is good he is so unsuspecting of a child's easy pretense, or I doubt I would have been so lucky.

Today their conversation dealt mainly with his travels and experiences. There was much talk of his visits to the court of George III and a kingdom under a mountain belonging to a mutual friend. Next came extravagant descriptions of the creatures of his land: imps and hobgoblins, dark púcas and wise old crones, bright firebirds that leave tracks of smoke in the sky where they flew, and dragons the size of small birds that laid tiny, jewel-encrusted eggs. The child was quite delighted with his description of flower fairies, which he regards as pests. I am certain he exaggerates for her benefit, but some of the details he gives cannot be challenged. I have no evidence to the contrary and he speaks with such conviction…

He is quite familiar with the child. They have dispensed with most formalities, despite his claims to title and greater age. Might this not be evidence of mankind's natural superiority, that rather than her deferring to him, they speak as equals? Yet the things of which he speaks—the places, the people he has seen! Perhaps he lies? —are such marvels, I doubt that his civilization, though undoubtedly savage in many ways, can be any less advanced in terms of hierarchical delineation.

Conflicted. Will smoke a pipe on it and report back.

 

November 16, 2:48 a.m.

After much reflection (and three pipes), I have come to the following conclusions:

1) He is quite inexperienced. The child has managed to procure an astounding amount of data on him with very little attempt at deceit on his part. This is unlike most recorded interspecies interactions and most easily attributable to his youth. Perhaps he underestimates his opponent for the same reason, simply assuming the child to be unwitting. Ha! If he but knew!

2) It would seem that this is not his first occasion to be amongst humans, although I have reason to believe his experience is limited mainly to children. He is well acquainted with our habits and displays an unexpected familiarity in the rhymes and games of childhood. Indeed, he behaves himself like a child at times, while at other moments takes on a gravity more befitting one many years older than he appears.

3) His avian form is not his original one, but rather one that he may take at will. The manner in which he boasts about it indicates that he takes much pride in his transformation; apparently the accomplishment was intended to distinguish him from his peers, whom he holds in contempt. This would seem to support the premise of his high rank in the hierarchy of fairy-folk, although I am at a loss as to why a king should desire to distinguish himself further from others of his kind.

4) I have received brief response from the Society. They as much as laughed in my face. They told me I'd as much a chance at talking to him as crossbreeding werewolves. I see they have not yet forgotten the incident with the carpet. Considering sending them gloves filled with itching powder.

 

November 16, 10:25 p.m.

I am more convinced than ever of my previous conclusions. However, upon further consideration, I am uneasy about the extent to which he discusses the wonders of his kingdom with the child, who is naturally quite drawn in. It is good that I thought to enact a number of precautions after their first encounter, although I do not believe he would be so foolish as to try to steal her away from her own backyard where she is hardly unprotected. I hope for her sake, however, that she is not too entranced. He will not linger forever, only until his wing is healed. I will certainly forbid her from accompanying him when he departs.

He and the child played games together all day. He is healing quickly, but seems in no particular hurry to leave. Nothing much else to report.

Eel pie and mash for dinner. Chicken with filberts and apple for supper.

 

November 17, 11:55 p.m.

I have spoken with him.

I find myself much shaken by the experience. The child did not reveal how terrifying it is merely to meet his gaze. I do not know how she can tolerate his focus.

His eyes are disturbingly avian, a piercing blue not found in nature; I found myself wondering if that is their natural appearance or a consequence of his botched transformation. One eye has a pupil and iris as a man does; the other is dilated and pigmented as a nocturnal raptor's eye. Looking at them for too long is distinctly uncomfortable; makes one feel hunted. I shudder to think of it.

We said very little of consequence to one another, except to acknowledge that he had always been aware of my presence, and had been content to wait until I could not resist making myself known. I refrained from correcting him. I would prefer not to admit that I had lost my footing and stumbled into their midst by accident. Something about him discourages confessions of incompetence; probably for fear that he may start to regard me as easy prey, particularly following the revelation that my stealthy studies of him were neither stealthy nor altogether accurate.

He does not trust me. I suppose that is fair. However, in exchange for a few paltry items (including a small jar of marmalade, of all things), he has agreed to an interview. Will report back tomorrow.

Dinner of cold ham and bread. Distracted at tea—everything tasted ashen. Picked at supper, lamb curry served over rice.

 

November 18, 10:12 p.m.

I remain deeply unsettled by today's events. I have not ascertained his origin; it occurs to me that it is possible that he does not know of it himself. I have come to an alarming conclusion about his interest in the child. But let me not get ahead of myself. Here is a transcription of our interview, translated from my shorthand.

When I arrived at the bottom of the garden at the agreed upon hour, he was not there. I settled onto a small boulder and prepared my notes, but as the minutes passed, I grew more and more uneasy. Doubts bred in my mind. I was just beginning to suspect that I had been duped when he appeared, startling me by his silent approach and sudden speech.

"Sarah tells me that you are a scholar."

I jumped and may have gasped audibly. It was clearly his intent that I be taken unawares, but he looked distinctly amused by my surprised reaction. I scrambled for a response.

"Yes. I study—" I stopped, distressed. How does one explain one's studies to the object of said study? There can be no tactful method of admission.

"Yes?" he asked, his strange eyes gleaming from the shadows of the thorn tree.

"Your—kind. I study your kind." I burst.

"I see," he said. He did not blink or expand upon his taciturn acceptance and I began to fidget under the weight of his unwavering gaze.

"I appreciate your concern for young Sarah," he said abruptly. "It is commendable that an uncle take such an interest in the safety of his charge." He leaned his back against the thorn tree and smiled at me lazily.

I reddened. For all his compliments, he knew as well as I that the child's safety had not been the primary reason for my observation. Worse, he felt entitled to chastise me for my neglect.

"She became involved in my research," I snapped, nettled. "She is my responsibility. I had to ensure her safety."

"A green coat? Daisy chains? _Bread_?" he hissed. "You should have stuck with the cold iron. But of course your precious _research_ must outweigh all thought of the security of a little girl."

"What do you care?" I asked angrily.

At this, he smiled, and I felt the heat of my rage turn cold with fear as my next words caught in my throat.

"You might say that I am in the business of caring," he said. I shivered. His was not a kind smile: too many long, pointed teeth.

"How—how so?" I asked, half-afraid of the answer.

"I am the Goblin King," he said quietly.

I shook my head, nonplussed. "What does that…" I trailed off.

Deep in the recesses of my mind, a memory stirred, and slowly I began to recall certain stories from my childhood. Stories of naughty children, of lost, unwanted, wayward boys and girls. Stories of the creatures that lurked in the dark, waiting for the right words to summon them to take the children away for ever and ever. And whispers of their master, a king as great and terrible and blinding as the sun…

Cold fear flooded me for a second time; to my shame, I began to tremble uncontrollably. I swallowed thickly, my throat suddenly parched. "You will not…take her?"

He favored me with a sly glance. "No," he sneered. "She is not ready."

From my expression he could see that I did not find that assurance at all comforting, but he did not elaborate.

"She knows what she must do to summon me." He said smoothly, stepping away from the trunk of the thorn tree.

"What is that?" I croaked, averting my eyes as he emerged from the shadows. I could not bear to look at him.

"Say her right words," he said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as his image blurred and shifted, becoming small and feathered. An owl stood where he had been but moments before, but the eyes were the same and I knew it was he. The owl stared regally down at me for a long moment, scrutinizing me—what he saw I cannot guess—and then flapped his wings and was gone.

He has gone. I was unable to procure a promise that he will not return, but have implemented numerous protective measures about the house. My sister-in-law is most displeased. She does not care for St. John's wort and complains that the bells jingle excessively each time one moves to open a door. But the child must be protected.

I am plagued by the fear that I will be unable to prevent him if he is intent on taking her from us. Dread fills me at the thought of what he said, that he has given her the necessary incantation to summon him to her should she have need of him. Despite my urgings and pleas, she will not divulge these "right words". I believe that he frightened her with his seriousness when he gave them to her; in any case, I take comfort that she is far too frightened to use them.

No appetite tonight.

 

November 19, 4:32 a.m.

My dreams are troubled. It seems each time I shut my eyes, I am confronted by ghostly visions of owls as they torment some small, pathetic creature in the dark, and I hear his cruel, cold laughter echoing in my head. I have not managed a full night's sleep since our conversation.

I must confess myself irked that despite all this I am further than ever from categorizing him. I have all manner of information on him, yet he remains shrouded in mystery. What manner of creature is he? What did he mean by "not ready"? I think Sarah knows. She will no longer confide in me.

Who is the Goblin King?

**Author's Note:**

> **The actual identity of the writer will remain secret until all the submissions are in and posted.**
> 
>  
> 
> ********
> 
>  
> 
>  **Title:** The Private Diary of Mr. John Tobias Williams, Esq.  
>  **Author:** [](http://owl-songs.livejournal.com/profile)[**owl_songs**](http://owl-songs.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Recipient:** [](http://moon-lover68.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://moon-lover68.livejournal.com/)**moon_lover68**  
>  **Prompt:** Backstory, mythology? How did the Labyrinth come to be? What is its purpose? Is Jareth really in charge, or is he merely another resident?  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Plot Summary/Author's Notes:** With the help of his young niece, a lonesome Victorian folklorist encounters and befriends a very young Goblin King. For his research, the folklorist probes him for the story of his origins. But some questions are best left unanswered, and, as our folklorist will discover, unasked.


End file.
